d the two figures in the doorway.

"You are sure that he has one?" whispered Turcas to Westerling's aide.

"Yes," was the choking answer--"yes. It is better than that"--with a
glance toward the mob. "I left my own on the table."

"We can't save him! We shall have to let them--"

Turcas's voice was drowned by a great roar of cries, with no word except
"Westerling" distinguishable, that pierced every crack of the house. A
wave of movement starting from the rear drove the veteran and the market
woman and a dozen others through the doorway toward the stairs. Then the
sound of a shot was heard overhead.

"The man you seek is dead!" said Turcas, stepping in front of the crowd,
his features unrelenting in authority. "Now, go back to your work and
leave us to ours."

"I understand, sir," said the veteran. "We've no argument with you."

"Yes!" agreed the market woman. "But if you ever leave this range alive
we shall have one. So, you stay!"

Looking at the bronze cross on the veteran's faded coat, the staff
saluted; for the cross, though it were hung on rag's, wherever it went
was entitled by custom to the salute of officers and "present arms" by
sentries.

As news of the shot travelled among the people the cries dropped into
long-drawn breaths of thirst satiated. Their mission was fulfilled. The
tramp of their feet as they dispersed homeward mingled with the urging
of officers to weary men and the rumbling of wagons and guns and the
sound of pick and spade on the range, where torches flickered over the
heads of the working parties. But no other shot after the one heard from
Westerling's room was fired. The Grays were at grip with the fact of
disaster. An angry, wounded animal that had failed of its kill was
facing around at the mouth of its lair for its own life.

"We're tired--we're all tired; but keep up--keep up!" urged the
officers. "We have a new chief of staff and there will be no more
purposeless sacrifices. It's their turn at the charge; ours to hold.
We'll give them some of the medicine they've been giving us. God with
us! Our backs against the wall!"

After Lanstron's announcement to the Brown staff of his decision not to
cross the frontier, there was a restless movement in the chairs around
the table, and the grimaces on most of the faces were those with which a
practical man regards a Utopian proposal. The vice-chief was drumming on
the table edge and looking steadily at a point in front of his fingers.